


Touch

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Kane (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-19
Updated: 2007-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris believes there is a god. And his name is Steve Carlson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

Thing is, when Steve Carlson sings and plays his guitar, Chris turns into a bit of a groupie. Okay, so he turns all groupie. But how can he not? That voice, those eyes, those fingers caressing the strings like he's making love to them? Who wouldn't get a little weak in the knees? Man or woman, young or old, country or rock &amp; roll. It's inevitable. Really. He oughta know. Every time. Gets him every single goddamn time, whether he wants it to or not. Steve just touches people somehow…

It's been this way for years now, and Chris has grown used to this ache that being around Steve creates. And it's not like Chris doesn't have his own amount of fans, because he does. Hell, he's even had a stalker, and a half if you count the guy that threw his jock strap on stage once in Nashville, so he knows he's good. But Steve? Steve is in a class of his own. Steve is fuckin' awesome. Literally. So that's just how it is. How it's always been, how it will always be. When you're around greatness it's bound to affect you in weird ways.

He's just finished a 'surprise' solo show at a club Chris has, admittedly, never frequented. It's 11pm.His voice is hoarse from singing for two hours straight instead of the hour he originally agreed to. Chris is there to take him home after, maybe stopping by a bar on the way if he wants. He's there to lend support and companionship. But after Steve's shows he's alive. Simply, irresistibly alive. And it's a sight to see so Chris makes it a habit to see it as often as possible. When Steve hops into his Jeep Cherokee with a smile as warm and wide as Texas he grins back automatically. And falls a little bit more in love with his best friend.

"How was I?" he asks, voice raw and gravelly.

"Great. As always."

"Yeah?" And it's that slight doubt, that reservation about his gift, that makes and breaks Chris. Makes his hidden nurturing nature kick in and offer words of encouragement and strength. Breaks his heart when Steve continues to ask as if he can never completely believe him.

"Would I lie, Steve?" he asks bluntly.

"No. You might cheat, but you don't lie…So I did good in there…"

"Beautiful. That's all I can say. I mean, dude, you rocked the house down…"

Chris throws a grin his way. It's a real grin. Not like when someone's trying to get something out of Steve. This is why Steve respects him so much. He knows it, too. Knows Steve looks to him for it whenever everything else in his life becomes too dreamy.

"Want to go get a drink or you just wanna head home?" Chris hopes in the back of his mind that he'll want to go home. That he'll invite him in and sing or play, or just hang out with him a while.

"Home, James…" he says teasingly like Chris is his chauffeur, waving a dismissing hand in the general direction of his house.

Chris drives, humming softly to the melody running through his head. They both recognize the ballad as one Steve sang tonight. He hums along, easily harmonizing with Chris' lower tenor. By the time Chris pulls up in his driveway they've gone through the 3rd chorus (the one that never showed up on the CD) three times and are working their way up to the acoustic solo. Before he gets out Steve plays the solo in the air, fingers moving over imaginary strings, his face contorted as if he is really lost in the sway of it.

"Beer?" Steve asks once they're inside and heading toward the living room.

"Nah," Chris replies. What he wants suddenly is something he shouldn't, can't have. Damn Steve Carlson and his gift!

"Hey, you okay?" His tired eyes narrow in concern.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be? Just tired I guess."

And Chris is. Tired of not understanding exactly what is it he wants from him. Tired of being at the shows, or even performing with him, and watching without touching. Tired of feeling this crazy need to kiss the throat that belts out such sweet lyrics and the fingers that drag out the rawest music. Tired, more than anything, of worshipping a guy who is just a man, just his friend, just a human being instead of a god.

"…It's late. You can crash here if you want. Got a clean guest bedroom with your name written all over it…" There's a question in his eyes that Chris chalks up to waning energy, to the high of performing losing ground. He's used to it and gives him a small smile.

He knows he should say no, knows it's for the good of both of them, but he nods instead. "Okay."

A half hour later they're getting ready for their separate beds. Before Steve wanders off to his he turns and looks at Chris directly. Chris misses something in it, something different, something soft and new, before he silently salutes and heads into his bedroom. The door closes quietly, and Steve, he notices, does not look back. He wonders what it meant. The look. The feeling of need behind it.

Then it hits him, what the look made him think of. It reminded him of the way he feels when he watches Steve on stage. Like a creek ebbing and flowing around the rocks trying to block its path. Naturally sleek and cool. Necessary. As necessary as breathing. It isn't until he hears an acoustic guitar being strummed loosely, languidly, with a lost voice calling his name, that he turns from the guest bedroom door, that he finds himself opening Steve's. When Steve sees him he blushes, ducks his head and scoots over to give him room on the bed.

Without another word Steve holds out a trembling hand in another kind of invitation. Chris looks at the calloused palm, the peach flesh surrounding his long life line, then looks back up into his eyes. Chris, because, hell, in a way, Steve is a god, or at least his god, accepts by taking the offered hand in his own. And he wonders, can't help but wonder as Steve gazes into his eyes like he's gazing at stars in a night sky, if maybe Steve worships him just as much…


End file.
